Blossom
by iruusu
Summary: "The Hanahaki Disease is an illness born from one-sided love, where the patient coughs up flowers or flower petals. The only cure is to have that love reciprocated, or to somehow wipe away all one's memories of their beloved person." Judal thinks that the whole thing is a load of shit, until he's coughing up delicate, violet petals into his pale, trembling hands.


**A/N: hanahaki is mostly a kpop thing but sinbad and judal look like they could be in boybands so same thing i guess**

* * *

The name, "Sinbad," always toed playfully at the edges of Judal's mind, always just out of reach, looming at the very back of his muddled thoughts. Dangerously, he'd only allowed it to come closer once or twice, to submerge himself in thoughts of the man, to wallow in his useless pining and self-lament, but doing so didn't make him feel any better.

This time, though, something like bile rose in his throat, churned in his stomach, and his whole body was trembling when the flowers spilled from his lips. They were delicate things, soft and unblemished, with petals the same purple of his silken hair, pistils the same gold of his eyes. For a long while, Judal stared at them, chest heaving, eyes unblinking but watery still, and then, in a rush, hot tears spilled down his cheeks.

Judal was going to die. He knew that already, no one escaped this disease. As if suffering from unrequited love was not enough to bear, now there was this too, this constant reminder budding in his stomach, in his chest, in his throat, and now it was going to kill him.

Judal supposed that there were worse ways to die. There were worse ways for Sinbad to kill him than with this. Judal had lived long enough, he'd suffered long enough. Perhaps, in a way, the delicate flowers held in his trembling fingers were Sinbad's final act of mercy.

He turned around on the bed and threw himself down onto the pillow, and the petals tangled into his hair as he lulled himself into a tearful sleep.

* * *

"You haven't seen him in months," said Kougyoku, and Judal could tell she was on the verge of tears. "How can you love him when he's hurt you so much?"

He hadn't meant to show anyone, not this, but when he felt it rising in his windpipe and fell to his knees and Kougyoku rushed forward to hold back his hair, he knew she had already seen it.

"He's still hurting me," said Judal, a bitter laugh. He played the flowers through his fingers, smoothed the crumpled petals with soft fingertips. He could never bring himself to throw them away, not really. He had a drawer full of them in his bedroom, and if one was especially nice, he might fill a vase of water for it. The servants cooed that Judal was in love. They didn't know the half of it.

"Al-Thamen, they can do something," she said. "I know that they can't be trusted, but-"

"No," Judal hissed, suddenly defensive. "They will not take this from me."

"You're going to die," she begged. "You're going to die, and I don't want to live without you. You're my best friend."

"Don't say you love me or anything like that," he teased. "Or you'll be tasting roses soon, too." But Judal knew that she never would, not because their friendship was not deep enough for love, but because no matter how he tried to deny it, he loved her too.

"This is going to kill Kouen," she said softly. "Don't make him watch you die."

"What is going to kill me, now?"

Judal's whole face burned with shame as Kouen came in the room, saw Judal, trembling like something delicate in the wind, hunched over the flowers, violet and beautiful. Judal couldn't look at him.

"They are for Sinbad," said Kouen, and Judal's head shot up.

"How can you tell?"

"Even if it were not for the colors," said Kouen, "it's clear that you love him."

"I guess," said Judal, softly.

"He won't let anyone help him," said Kougyoku, but she wouldn't look at either of them. "He's going to let that ass of a man kill him slowly, and he doesn't care."

"Why don't you want to be healed of this?" asked Kouen as he took a knee, closer, to better meet Judal's bloody gaze. "It must hurt you."

"I don't want," said Judal, "to ever forget having felt this way. I want to always remember that I am capable of it, even if it kills me." And then, a bitter grumble, "this isn't a life worth living, anyways."

Kouen was silent, for a while, and then he took a single violet into his hands. "Do you love him?"

Judal nodded, slow and unsure, but there still. Kouen reached forward then, tucked the delicate flower into Judal's dark hair, behind his ear, and his smile was sad enough to make Judal's chest ache.

"Then you must tell him."

* * *

With Kouen's blessing, Judal had gone in a quick flurry of magic and carpets, but Kougyoku was still crying even as he left.

"I don't understand," she sobbed. "You were going to tell him. I saw the peach blossoms in your hand, brother!"

"Judal has enough to worry about with Sinbad," Kouen assured, but there was a sadness in his eyes, an acceptance that didn't quite reach the rest of his features, and Kougyoku's stomach was churning. "He need not spare his concerns for the heart of an old man like me."

"Then get Al-Thamen to remove it," she cried, "you have to do something, Kouen, I can't lose both of you!"

Kouen was going to die, too. He'd never remove the soft, delicate peach blossoms growing within him, he was much too proud for that. Even as he held her through the tears, Kougyoku knew it was hopeless.

"If I told him," said Kouen with a smile, tone empty, accepting, "it never would have mattered."

* * *

Judal slipped into Sinbad's chambers through the open balcony with as much grace as he could manage with his trembling footsteps, with his colorless features, with his erratic, beating heart.

In his hurry, Judal hadn't had the time to pretty himself, as he often liked to do for Sinbad. Now, his makeup was smeared and his hair was in total disarray, and Judal was certain that he looked like a walking corpse. But that was fine. If Sinbad didn't want him like this, then he'd never want him at all.

"Judal?" The voice was unusually hoarse, but it was Sinbad's all the same, eyes wide, but there was no bitterness in them, not now. Judal felt himself shaking. "It's been months. What are you doing here?"

"Just," he coughed, and tried to swallow down the petals in his throat, "thought I'd stop by. I was in the neighborhood."

"You don't look well," said Sinbad, "let me help you." And the surprise in his features shifted to something like concern as he helped Judal, shaking, to the bed. He'd almost forgotten, just how much he loved Sinbad; perhaps it would've been better if he'd never come at all, and he had allowed these feelings to die slowly in their own time. This, though, was more painful than anything.

"I've never seen you sick," said Sinbad again, voice still hoarse, "or so quiet."

"I'm not feeling my best."

"Neither am I," Sinbad admitted.

Judal was silent, for a moment, and then managed, "why is your voice like that?"

Sinbad seemed nervous, suddenly anxious, and he managed a scratchy laugh. "The drink was too strong, last night."

"Really?" Judal asked. "I thought you could take anything alcoholic without batting an eyelash."

Sinbad smiled, something unusually bitter for his charming face. "Not this, I suppose."

Judal nodded in agreement, and then Sinbad nudged gently at the flower still woven into his hair. "This is cute."

Judal blushed, and the feelings rose in him again, bubbling in his chest, at the base of his throat. "Thanks."

"Violets are my favorite flower, you know."

"I guessed as much," Judal whispered, smiling.

Really, he had started to feel better, it hadn't hurt as much-if only for a split second-but then he was coughing again, into his hand, flowers choking his throat and spilling again from pink lips, petals blooming in bright purple against his pale fingertips. He couldn't look at Sinbad, but he could tell the man was frozen.

"For you," said Judal, caught somewhere between laughter and sobs as he held out his hand, held out the bright flowers that had choked him for months, strangled him for weeks; destroyed whatever remained of his broken heart. "Aren't they just lovely?"

"How long has this been happening to you?"

"Too long," said Judal. "Far too long." And then, softer, "they are for you."

Judal was frozen stiff when Sinbad brought the rose out from his robe, red as the blood of Judal's eyes, fresh and bright and beautiful. Sinbad's smile far surpassed the light of his eyes.

"You know," he said in his torn voice, "roses are very beautiful, but their thorns can really tear up a man's throat."

Judal was so shocked, so touched, that all he could manage was to cry, to fall against Sinbad's chest, to feel the arms around him as he sobbed. But the tears were good ones, happy ones, and Judal was smiling through them as Sinbad angled up his face to kiss him.

"I love you," said Judal, when he pulled away, and Sinbad's smile was almost blinding. Judal had never thought he'd live to see Sinbad cry.

"I love you too," said Sinbad, and Judal knew, in his heart, that he meant it.

* * *

Waking up in Sinbad's bed, in Sinbad's arms, Judal's fever had broken, and there were no violet petals left blossoming within him.


End file.
